


Wolves of Oxford

by codswallop



Series: Wolves of Oxford [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Episode, Gen, Pilot Episode, Psychic Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5881819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codswallop/pseuds/codswallop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday's wolfbrother doesn't think much of the new recruit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves of Oxford

**Author's Note:**

> The use of psychic wolves in this fic series is based on Dira Sudis's Generation Kill wolfverse fics, which in turn are based on the Iskryne World novels by Sarah Monette and Elizabeth Bear.

Too many people underfoot, was the opinion of Fred Thursday; too many people by half, not that anyone had asked him. It was the same any time there was a high-profile investigation like this. Too many wolfbrothers as well, and Cowley station hadn't been built to accommodate them. Their constables hadn't learnt what to do with them yet, and they wagged like dogs, tongues out, betraying their human brothers' eagerness to see some real action at last, for all they were trying to act so perfectly blasé. 

"Out," Thursday ordered the lot of them, then reconsidered; he could use a couple of extra bodies as runners and fact-finders, but no more than two. “You, and you--stay. But your brothers will have to wait outside until they’re needed.”

“Sister,” one of the constables corrected him, in a thin sharp voice, and Thursday looked round in surprise--both at having missed noticing that there was a female among them, and at being spoken to in such a tone. “Sir,” the constable added, when Thursday glared, but he didn’t drop his gaze. He looked directly back at Thursday, eyes as sharp as his voice.

Thursday should have ordered him out with the others, should have sent him straight back to whatever out-of-the-way outpost he’d come from, but he was too busy and too distracted; it would have to slide. “Sister or brother, they’ll wait outside for now,” he said, giving the young man one last hard look, and Ares beside him gave voice to the guttural growl beneath his words, so that the constable finally ducked his head awkwardly in a nominal sort of apology and then leant down to speak to his sister in a low placating croon.

Later on, Thursday would wonder what in the hell he’d been thinking, letting them stay. Hadn’t wanted to seem prejudiced, he’d defend himself. Ares took to them, right off, he’d say--although it wasn’t true; Ares disdained them at first, but it was an easy lie, and his brother wouldn’t mind. But it was Thursday who’d seen something potentially useful in the young constable’s straightforward gaze, in truth, even if he occasionally cursed himself for not ignoring it, in the weeks and months to come.

*

The next time he saw the young man to notice him, it was late in the evening, a few days after their first encounter, and he was absorbed in studying a stack of case files, long after the other juniors had gone home. “There’s no overtime,” Thursday told him, putting on his coat. 

“I realise that,” the constable said, sounding irritated at the interruption, then saw who he was speaking to and had the grace to look abashed. His sister, who’d been lying at his feet beneath the desk with her chin on his foot, got up and sat at attention next to him. She had almost the same unnerving light-eyed gaze as her brother, Thursday noticed, as Ares ambled over to sniff at her. She looked like a different species altogether next to Ares’s shaggy grey bulk: small-boned and pale-furred, nearly white. She sniffed Ares back once, courteously, and then turned away.

“Which one are you?” Thursday asked him. 

“Morse,” said the constable. “My sister is Sieglinde.” Thursday only just managed not to roll his eyes; of course, it _would_ be something outlandish. Not that he was one to talk--Ares had seemed like a smashing name for the brother of a brash young lieutenant on his way to the front lines in 1942, but he’d had cause to regret it long since.

The constable, it came out, was following up on some line of inquiry he’d dreamt up all on his own, relating to poetry books and crossword clues--ludicrous, a complete wild goose chase, but at least he was keen, which couldn’t remotely be said of any of his peers, or even most of his betters. Ares had lost interest halfway through the conversation and loped ahead to the car, and Thursday followed after him soon enough. 

_What do you think?_ he asked his brother. _This Seeg-whosis. How’s she?_

 _Cold,_ Ares said. _Stuck-up. They’re not staying long, are they?_ and then his thoughts were on nothing but the road ahead and dinner waiting. Which was a relief, really. Police wolves weren’t generally used for breeding, so there’d be no expectations of that sort, but it would be awkward just the same if the detective inspector’s brother took a fancy for a skinny young constable’s bitch. 

*

Ares was one of the only wolves at CID currently who’d been bred for fighting. Most police wolves were, to put it delicately, _military excess_ , meaning they’d been considered not aggressive enough to be useful in battle. The current generation of trainees were more dog than wolf, in Thursday’s impolitic opinion--it was rumoured they were being selected nowadays for heightened intelligence and intuitive capacity, but that was wishful thinking if he’d ever heard it. At any rate, they were more impressive-looking threats to have at one’s side than batons, and good at inducing reluctant witnesses to talk or running down the odd snatch-and-grab or suspect on the run. 

They were better sniffers than dogs, too. Within another day they’d turned up the body of the missing girl--just where Constable Morse’s bizarre crossword puzzle theory had suggested it might be. Coincidence, maybe, but Thursday was beginning to wonder if he’d underestimated the lad. He certainly hadn’t underestimated himself; that was clear enough from his smug looks.

He was worse than useless at the autopsy, though. Thursday didn’t notice anything was amiss at first, not until the constable’s wolf whined, whined again, then let out a sharp bark. He was about to round on Morse and tell him off for not keeping his sister in line--this was a police procedure, for the love of god--when Ares broke in _catch him!_ and Thursday shot his arm out just in time to keep Morse from pitching over in a dead faint. He eased Morse to the ground while his sister barked and whined frantically, trying to get between them. _Would you--_ Thursday nudged Ares, and didn’t have to finish the thought before Ares had backed the young she-wolf into a corner of the room. Thursday couldn’t quite hear the wolfish conversation that transpired--she wasn’t pack--but she quieted after one more faint whine, and when Thursday glanced over again she was lying placidly enough between Ares’s front paws, ears back and posture tense, but waiting. 

Ares had a knack for calming other wolves. He’d had plenty of practise at it, working at Cowley.

“Is this a habit of his, does she know?” Thursday asked his brother. 

_He doesn’t like blood,_ Ares told him. _She cut her paw on glass once, and he did the same thing._

“Necrophobic,” DeBryn said distractedly, almost at the same moment, with his gloves deep in gore. “Saw him out at the riverside when we dealt with the boyfriend--though he didn’t faint on me that time. A squeamish murder detective, what do you think of that?”

Thursday knew exactly what he thought of that, and filed it blackly away along with _insubordinate_ , _speaks before he thinks_ , and _too clever for his own good_. But he nodded to the pale wolf, who was gazing up at him in silent flat-eared appeal, and she padded over to lie down next to Morse and lap at his face. Ares, to his surprise, followed suit on the other side, until Morse stirred groggily and muttered a wordless complaint.

“Stay down,” Thursday told him, eyes still on the corpse. “You’re less trouble on the floor. I’ll tell you when it’s over.”

*

He was a lot of trouble no matter where he was, in truth. By the time the case was cracked, he’d kicked over any number of rocks in the Oxford underworld, made enemies of half the department, got inappropriately involved with the murderer, and threatened to quit the force altogether. His sister had bit the veterinary officer and piddled on the new superintendent’s rug.

“I think I’ll take him on,” Thursday told Ares, as they drove over to Morse’s digs--ostensibly to give him a lift to the train station, but Thursday had a feeling about this one. “I could use a permanent bagman. He’ll keep things lively, won’t he?”

Ares stuck his head out the window, pretending not to hear. “Don’t be jealous,” Thursday chided him, giving his tail a gentle tug. “You’re still number one around here. And you like the sister, don’t you? I suppose I’ll have to learn how to pronounce her name now. Oh, dear.”

 _She’s all right,_ Ares allowed, which was saying quite a lot, for an old wolf set in his ways.

“Thought so,” Thursday said, giving his tail another tug, and Ares pulled his head back in and set his teeth in Thursday’s shoulder. “Leave off, you menace, I'm driving!” Thursday admonished. “And Win’ll be after you with a rolled-up newspaper if you ruin another of my suits.”

They drove on in silence for a bit. 

“They’ll do fine,” Thursday pronounced. “We’ll look after them. With the proper encouragement, who knows?”


End file.
